


'cause i’ve been unwell far too long now

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: An excuse for cuddling, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, M/M, Sick Character, This is self indulgent as all hell tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a finite line between <i>selfless</i> and absolutely <i>reckless</i>, Anders thinks with a wry smile; and he wonders if he’s toeing that line right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause i’ve been unwell far too long now

**Author's Note:**

> this legitimately has no rhyme nor reason to it i got stuck and asked syd for a prompt to write out, got "sick anders" and 
> 
> here we are

There is a finite line between _selfless_ and absolutely _reckless_ , Anders thinks with a wry smile; and he wonders if he’s toeing that line right now. Chest heavy, lungs ache, and there’s a rasp to his voice that he chalks up to the strain of staying  _awake_ for as long as he does. There was absolutely no time to linger, there are so many that come into his clinic for help; and as he hovers over a sick patient—the rattle in her lungs alert him to pneumonia and a hovering cloud of _Death_ that leaves him biting his tongue from saying so. The older woman’s companion, a teenage girl (in her arm is a small swaddle of rags and his eyes catch a distinct wiggle of _newborn_ ; and his heart aches) hovers behind him with a worried look on her face.

Anders doesn’t have to turn to face her to _know_.

His lips curve down slightly when he manages to soothe the coughing fit of the elder woman, and when he turns around to assign the girl the small duty of giving her (mother? Grandmother? _friend_?) water when asked for, the sight of another refugee crosses the threshold of his clinic.

They’re covered in blood and clutching at their arm to their chest. It has a whirlwind kicking up beneath his veins, _Justice_ paces—as much as a spirit inhabiting a human body _could,_ really—in the back of his mind as he wonders just who dared to do this. The answer is clear as day when he notes the glances behind him, nervousness in the twitching of the refugee’s eyebrows: a runaway, apostate maybe.

Anders bites back a sigh of frustration—things are fuzzy at the edges, too far too near and moving far too fast for him to keep up, and he shakes his head. The movement only makes it worse, and Justice’s voice echoes, loud and booming, in his head: ‘ _focus, work is not yet_ done’—

He is _not_ getting sick.

Anders is not _allowed_ the luxury of illness when there are those who need him.

“Ah over here, please, sit here,” Anders soothes, voice falling back into the familiar comforting lilt of _healer_ ; the careful nuances of concern and firmness that didn’t allow for protest lace his words together easily. The refugee grimaces, follows the curve of Anders’ gentle smile warily before sighing and slumping down onto the cot.

He feels the last few hours in his core, an ache that he’s learned to ignore when the clinic was overflowing with those who needed him, and Anders breathes a quiet sigh as he raises his hands up to help the refugee on the cot. The familiar cool blue tint of creation magic flows, and the content sigh from the refugee is enough to have Anders push on despite the limits he’s nearing.

Justice is humming happily in the back of Anders’ mind, _knowing_ that the spirit is content enough to _not_ harp on him further gives the blond mage a sort of reprieve. It’s silent in the clinic, save for the rattling coughs and sharp wheezes from sleeping-near-dead patients scattered about, as Anders works; and by the end of it he’s gone through at _least_ three different strength lyrium potions.  It makes his head spin. _Ache_ , more like it; and his fingertips are stained too blue to be _healthy_. The resolute _not sick_ echoes in his veins, a mantra to remind himself that there are those who need him; and Anders is definitely, wholeheartedly:

 _Not Sick_. 

Eventually, _thankfully_ , the din of the clinic dulls to something that Anders can actually manage to breathe through. Think through. Well, as best as his nose will allow him, and the blond sniffs daintily as he organizes the tinctures and bottles of supplies on the shelves in the back room.

It’s surprisingly soothing to do, despite the pounding ache in his head— _not_ caused by a booming indignant spirit (and the ripple of what feels like _offense_ from Justice almost makes Anders laugh out loud) crying out at the injustices in the world—and the way his visions curdles at the edges. He breathes through his mouth, a slight wheeze as he attempts to adjust for not being able to smell much.  His focus is mostly on the shelves, on the bottles that are cooler than usual in his grip, and Anders doesn’t hear the quiet click of the door opening. Nor does he hear the shuffling of footsteps approach—the feel of a hand on his shoulder startles him, dizzy already as he spins to take a good _look_ at his attacker, and he realizes his staff is too far; Justice is _ready_ to push his way out—to protect; and.

It’s Hawke.

The taller male looks just as startled as Anders feels, and he pulls his hands away carefully. They’re lifted in surrender as Anders attempts to still the wildly spinning room. Hawke is _there_ , not a templar looking for the apostate mage running a clinic; and he wonders how he managed to not be robbed blind with his mind as foggy as it is.

(he thinks it’s the refugees’ doing, an attempt to repay him without coin; a protection from them _and_ from varric that leaves anders vaguely teary-eyed and _guilty_.)

“Woah there,” Hawke’s voice is muffled, the spinning and headache returned, and Anders suppresses the groan of pain that wants to bubble past his lips. He didn’t expect the other mage to be here, was _hoping_ that maybe Varric and Isabela would keep him occupied on the coast, and Anders swallows the bitter guilt at the thought. How awful of him.  He knows just how finicky Justice could _be_  sometimes, a constant push-force that keeps Anders (somewhat) focused on his attempts to keep the mages safe, to get them _out_ and for those to see the error of their ways, but. Hawke, _Hawke_  is a force all on his own that Anders did not expect to appear before him. Open to the idea of having the Chantry change, the way he occasionally stuck his _own_  neck out for Anders and mage rights.

( _a distraction,_ justice says, again and again, and anders wants to agree; but this time he’ll pretend he didn’t _hear_ justice the last thousand times he’s mentioned hawke and be selfish. for only a little while at least.)

Which, he _was_ getting distracted, the thoughts swirling incoherently around in his head while Hawke watches him. Anders _should_ be listening to Hawke, if he was speaking and he can’t remember if the black haired mage even _was_  talking to him. The realization makes his heart drop at being inattentive and Anders forces himself to look Hawke in the eye. There is concern in the wrinkles of his brow, of the corners of his mouth, and Anders shakes his head and lifts a hand.

He is _fine_. Perfectly okay.

“‘M fine,” he soothes, though he’s positive that the assurances go unheard; because Hawke is moving closer with a determined look on his face now. A hand, cold and so so comforting, presses against his forehead. Quietly sighing at the sensation, Anders leans into the touch; and it’s subtle enough that he _hopes_ Hawke doesn’t notice.

Except that Hawke is frowning even deeper at the motion, and it’s telling that Anders wasn’t subtle enough. Drats.

“You’re _not_ ,” he snorts as a reply, and the familiar flare of annoyance from Justice (or what appears to _feel_ like annoyance?) rises as Anders gently takes Hawke’s hand in his own. He ignores the way the world spins again uncomfortably when he shakes his head, a retort on his lips.

“But I a—” Anders’ voice catches when Hawke presses his hand across his mouth, and the sudden overwhelming urge to _lick_  at his hand rises. A childish thought that makes him think of the Circle, of the oil-slick feel of templars’ lips against his ears—enticing in the way multiple stab wounds to the _gut_ would be—and it is _not_  worth dwelling; not when he feels the familiar crackle of Justice’s anger. Anders frowns. Hawke’s hand is still at his mouth, and he shakes his head as he pulls his hand away. There’s a determination in the creases of his frown, and Hawke takes Anders’ hand in his. He tugs him gently, leading the blond away from his shelves in a blur of spinning walls and angled floors that rise to greet him.

It’s disorienting for sure, and Hawke perhaps _knows_  this.

Anders is not sure whether or not he should attempt to run; the instinct rises, easy and familiar like the alleys of Darktown and the patients that see him daily, and as quick as it rises: Hawke grips his hand tighter. The force grounds him, has the world ceasing to spin as maddeningly, and Anders resigns himself to being led back through the alleys of Darktown and up into the steadily better looking conditions of Lowtown.

He doesn’t notice the glances Hawke sends his way, only that there’s movement somewhere in front of him; and Anders wonders if somewhere a wayward templar brought out a Smite with how dizzyingly _unstable_  he felt. He blinks and they’re in front of the Hawke estate, and there’s a moment of silence between them that only gets broken by the sound of Hawke fiddling with the door.

It is quiet when he opens the door, and Anders blinks at the fireplace—it’s low, nearly burned all the way out so it’s _late_ ; and Maker, it’s been a long, long day hasn’t it? Hawke doesn’t mention anything further, the absence of Sandal and Bodahn and Orana is felt, and Anders’ mind barely has time to process the feeling of being guided towards the stairs.

Anders blinks again, and they’re inside Hawke’s ( _theirs_ , his mind corrects hazily; and he feels the familiar disappointment? perhaps from Justice) bedroom. Hawke is muttering something to himself, incoherent and something that Anders wonders is a complaint for his protests—Maker _knows_ how stubborn he could be when it came to his own well-being.

The crackling of the fire is near nonexistent to his muffled hearing—when did that _happen_? Did he get _worse_ when he could’ve just ignored it and stayed at the clinic?—but the warmth it lets off is nice; and it almost has Anders sinking into Hawke’s arms. He doesn’t. Instead, he opens his mouth to protest; and Hawke beats him to it in the form of carefully guiding him to the edge of the bed. Hands are at his shoulders, gently coaxing the feathered pauldrons off and away from them; and then his feet are being shifted around as Hawke unties and tugs his boots off. Anders blinks, ignores the pounding in his head, and lets Hawke do whatever it is he needed to get the blond undressed and under the covers. Which, he _was_ doing. Undressing him and coaxing Anders beneath the enticing warmth of the blankets, that is.

(he should be at the clinic, stocking shelves and soothing the never-ending wave of refugees and sick he _should be there_ —)

“You’re thinking too hard, again,” Hawke’s voice is amused, and Anders blinks all over again—sluggish in reaction time, exhaustion tugging hard at the edges of his vision, and all he can think is _you are too good to me, love_ —when he feels Hawke sliding into bed with him. “ _Rest_ , Anders.”

The covers are dragged high over them, just barely hiding Anders’ face from Hawke’s view; and Hawke is wrapping arms around Anders’ waist. There is apparently no way around, and the blond sighs heavily as he opens his mouth, “I—” He needed to get Hawke to see his reasoning: he is a _healer_ , he needs to be there for those who couldn’t _get_ the care they deserved, he had to work on his pleas to the Chantry to _change_ , and—

Lips are pressed to his too-hot forehead, and Anders all but melts at the affection; the protest gone and dead on his lips. It leaves a bitter taste when he licks his dry lips, but Hawke is curling closer to him and already managed to tangle his legs with Anders’. He is effectively, ensnared, by the other’s body. Quite literally too, and Anders presses his face against Hawke’s chest.

“ _Sleep_.”  
  
He guesses, just this _once_ (twice, thrice) he can be selfish. He's allowed _this_ much, at least.


End file.
